s after the pacification of the
Archdeacon by my mother that a crisis occurred in my affairs. I am not a
person of any importance, although I shall be, I fear, some day; and
my affairs up to the present are not particularly interesting even to
myself. I record the crisis because it explains the fact that I lost
touch with Lalage for nearly four years and know little or nothing about
her development during that time. I wish I knew more. Some day, when I
have a little leisure, I mean to have a long talk with Miss Pettigrew.
She saw more of Lalage in those days than any one else did, and I think
she must have some very interesting, perhaps exciting, things to tell.
To a sympathetic listener Miss Pettigrew would talk freely. She has
a sense of humour, and like all people who are capable of laughing
themselves, takes a pleasure in telling good stories.

It was my uncle, Lord Thormanby, who was mainly responsible for my
private crisis. My mother, I daresay, goaded him on; but he has always
taken the credit for arranging that I should join the British embassy
in Lisbon as a kind of unpaid attache. My uncle used his private and
political influence to secure this desirable post for me. I do not know
exactly whom he worried. Perhaps it was a sympathetic Prime Minister,
perhaps the Ambassador himself, a nobleman distantly connected with
Lady Thonnanby. At all events, the thing was done and Thonnanby was
enormously proud of the achievement. He gave me a short lecture by way
of a send-off, in which he dwelt a good deal on his own interest in my
future and told me that my appointment might lead on to something big.
It has not done so, up to the present, but that I daresay is my own
fault.

The Canon, who seemed sorry to say good-bye to me, gave me a present of
an English translation of the works of the philosopher Epictetus, with
several passages, favourites of his own, marked in red ink. One of
these I used frequently to read and still think about occasionally, not
because I have the slightest intention of trying to live in the spirit
of it, but because it always reminds me of the Canon himself, and
so makes me smile. "Is a little of your oil spilt, or a little wine
stolen?" said this philosopher. "Then say to yourself: 'For so much
peace is bought. This is the price of tranquillity.' For nothing can
be gained without paying for it." It is by this wisdom that the man who
happened to be Lalage's father was able to live without worry